Her and the Room - Darden Hext (learn to read books TXT) 📗

First off, thank you for choosing to read this short story that I wrote for publication to be featured in a periodical. There are lots of stories out there and it humbles me that any one person would choose to read this. Whether you know me personally or as writer or not at all, I appreciate your mind and time. 

This story means a lot to me. I hope you do enjoy the read and my intention is to make you feel something. To inspire or provoke thoughts; whether those thoughts are good or bad, inward or outwardly exposed, I hope it moves you in a way. 

For this particular piece, I went with a metaphor. It's a hard one to write about in the open, so I often hide sensitive things beneath a layer of obscurity. Please let me know if this piece speaks to you in any way, or what you may have thought it was about. I love hearing interpretations of it. And thank you again for reading this piece. Check out the end of the book for my other works available. Indeed, I've come a long way. 

-Darden Hext-

2016

Her and the Room

A Short Story

by Darden Hext

How she ended up in this place, she was unsure. It was unique in its own self, that was for sure. An enclosed metallic room that was cold and depriving of any sort of sensory perception surrounded her; aside from the one fountain of liquid in the middle, pouring endlessly without an obvious power source. Light was low and shadows played with her mind--dancing figures that perpetuated an antithesis of restitution.

The sound of the liquid pouring resonated in her ears. It sounded too dense to be water, but it could be because of the room’s acoustics. She tried to test her voice in the room with a small whimper--it fell dead and flat before even reflecting back to her. Perhaps no reflection. She felt lethargic, as if in a dream. Or drunk.

Her arms wrapped around her body, feeling skin. No clothes. She wondered where she was before this, to be naked in an unknown place of unfamiliar discomfort. A low frequency hum rumbled through the room, like how an air conditioner or system behind the walls of some sort was also running.

The darkness was just enough to not be able to see every corner, but it was enough light to know she was alone with this fountain. There was no scent other than the metallic taste in her mouth; a typical sign of internal bleeding or even a concussion. It would certainly explain the pain in her head, like a hangover--or drugs. Thinking too much was uncomfortable. It was futile. 

She tried to think of her name, but like a voice was telling her otherwise, she could not say it and believe it. She tried to say it aloud. The trickling of the fountain laughed as it spritzed off its container. She reached for the container, it felt grainy like concrete, but fragile like sand. She could probably break it if she tried, but she had not the strength to prove the theory. 

Raising both of her hands to her eyes, she could see the dim-lit hands without the usual details. It was all enough to question her reality, but she felt awake. She felt it was real. She rose from her knees and felt the walls. All around this cubed room, no doors or seams. No switches or divots. No manufacturing differences or holes. No weakness or indicators of what it was she was in. Perhaps the door was on the ground or ceiling, she thought. 

Her legs felt numb like needles. She laid back down, recumbent, once more, with idle thoughts. She tried to control the jagged shards of memories that waterfalled through an endless array of nonsense. She touched her own face and felt her nose, her brown hair. Yes, she thought. Her hair. It was comforting. For whatever reason, her hair gave her a sense of reality that grounded her. She twisted it and pulled it and even smelled it. It didn’t have her usual scent, but it still tickled her nostrils and it amused her--briefly. 

Her back started to get cold and she could no longer relieve her mind of the fact that it was bothering her. She stands to her feet, with effort, and drags herself to the fountain in the middle of the dark room. Glistening highlights reflected off the water, almost giving it character. She couldn’t tell if the cones of her eyes were making her see grey, or if the liquid had no color. It could very well be water, or mercury. It was too light to be mercury. Still too dense to be water.

An inkling of thought, prodding her compulsion to touch it remained. It was the only thing that remained as all her other thoughts became less invasive, less sharded--like they all disintegrated until it was all that mattered. Touch the fountain. Maybe it was for her to drink. To sustain her and keep her curiosity alive. Maybe she would go insane. It didn’t matter what it was there for, it was the only action available.

The girl reached out into the dark, unsure of how far the liquid really was, but it seemed near. Her hand was brighter than the liquid, and she reached out until her hand dimmed. It was covered in this liquid. It felt cold to her. It was so cold, that it started to burn. She pulled her hand away and stared at it, unsure if the pain from the cold was psychosomatic or real. Her eyes glistened wide with intent to determine what it was.

The liquid dissipated, it felt like moving her hand from a cold environment to a hot one and then back. As if someone burned her hand with an iron while it ran under cold water. The dissipating content, the steam, went away and she looked at her hand. It was deprived of its skin. The outermost layer of protection. Curious, at first, but then horrified. She falls back, grasping it and in screams. Curdling and intermittent at first, but then elongated and intensified after.

The walls reflected her screams back to her, like they were yelling back. Mocking her. She laid, listening, like it was another voice. The pain didn’t last long, but the horror in her mind lingered.

The humming behind the walls became more robust with more volume and lower rumbling. The fountain looked like it was starting to boil, but it was the vibrations of the hums that were making it spill from its flow. It would hit the ground and splash; she would flinch and whimper away from it until she was in a corner. Trapped. The liquid continued to pour out and she had no idea of what to do next.

Liquid from the fountain seemed to take upon a human form, crawling out of its container and toward her. She cowered toward a corner; grasping her knees and clenching her teeth. Her other hand was numb. The liquid encroached and reached out for her as it took upon a form of a human hand. She dared not reach back for it until it grabbed her. Steam rose from the contact and she screamed. It took a few seconds for her to open her eyes and saw nothing there. It was all in her head. The liquid still poured from the fountain in its place, and her hand was normal. 

She stood to her feet, with a new resentment toward the fountain as she screamed at it. Challenging it to attack her. It kept flowing in its own place. She screamed again. Unmoved, she went to it and slapped the liquid and looked at her hand. Her hand was the same. The liquid dripped off, more dense than water. She slapped it again. Then again, but more slowly.

A profound curiosity took over. She let go of the hate she had for this false memory and procured the thoughts in front of her. This liquid was not living. It was in her mind. A byproduct of her ongoing loss of sanity. She thought time was running out, but maybe this liquid would sustain her. Daring to drink it, she considered, what was the worse that could happen?

A cliche’ thought, she knew, but of high consideration--nothing else could replace those words and thoughts. She did not want to sound cliche, but at this point, it was the only sentence that made sense. She cupped her hand and reached for the liquid in the fountain. Submerging her hand beneath it, disappearing, but no burn. She pulled it back out and had some of it in her hand. She lifted it to her lips. A note of smell? Nothing. She pursed her mouth and tipped her makeshift cup of liquid while sipping. It was like a warm kiss that soothed her cold lips.

The taste, it was… not bad. It was good. It was amazing. It was profound! She sipped the rest of it into her mouth and allowed the liquid to swish around inside. The flavor was not evident, but it gave a certain relief, as if every molecule released her taste buds like they were in individual prisons. She felt a warm embrace, every iota of the liquid calmed her trembling inside as it sank to her stomach. Sleep could encumber her. Thoughts were no longer pervaded by fear. A comfort, a familiar sense arose from this ingestion and she pondered the intent of this mysterious liquid. The light over the fountain seemed to give it a new sheen. Perhaps there was a misunderstanding.

The fountain gurgled. She wanted more. It replenished her, invigorated her. With caution, she approached, still wary. The fountain stopped moving, it was just stagnant liquid at the bottom of its cusp. The eerie quiet made her cold again. She reached for the liquid and it burned her hand again. She screamed, shook her hand, saw it was again a trick of the mind and slammed her fists onto the fountain. The edge of the bowl broke off and shatter, and liquid spilled out. It touched her toes, but she howled with rage, drowning out the mocking echo.

Pieces of the fountain were over the floor and she stared at the destruction she caused, as a victory. The liquid drained to the bottom. Her eyes bulged, realizing what she had done. The only thing that gave her a moment of comfort was gone. It was her fault. She fell to her knees and tried picking at the drain in the cement ground. Her nails cracked and bled. She lost it all and the tears in her eyes were making it hard for her to see. The tears rolled down her cheeks and into the drain. She licked some of the tears from her lips--the salty, warm water from her eyes.

Crying, she sat, wrapping her legs with her arms. She stared at the only thing that gave her a sense of reality. The light, which was not